


Collateral

by Marguerite



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Pre-Episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-16
Updated: 2009-03-16
Packaged: 2019-05-30 17:03:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15101171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marguerite/pseuds/Marguerite
Summary: "Josh was still rebuilding, still struggling, undaunted but without direction, and now they were offering him something that could reignite his extraordinary heart. Or send him down in flames."





	Collateral

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

***

Josh Lyman's office  
10:48 p.m.

He hated bright light.

At night, Josh's office was dim, the minimal illumination coming from a muted television tuned to C-SPAN and a single, low-wattage lamp with a yellow shade. He found that the glare of overhead lights gave him a headache, so he preferred to peer at documents by this strange, flickering luminescence.

These days a lot of things gave him a headache - Republicans, for example, and the new perfume Donna wore that was supposed to remind him of green tea but instead made his nose run, and the way Leo still hovered over him even though the incident in the Oval was months ago.

The sound of a man's uneven footsteps made him glance up from his folder, his eyes bleary from bad reading light and lack of sleep. Leo was in the doorway.

"Josh? You busy?"

Josh looked at the paper-strewn desk. "I'm looking at this report, you know, and I can't find the notes Donna left me."

"Yeah, I can imagine that. It's dark as hell in here, Josh, you're gonna ruin your eyes."

The power of suggestion left an itchy, dry sensation around his eyelids and Josh tipped his head back, eyes open, trying to get moisture flowing.

"You don't look too good, Josh."

"I think it might have been the chicken salad. So anyway, what do you need to see me about?"

Leo shifted from one foot to another, his hands digging deeply into his pockets. He turned around to look out the door. He stared at the bullpen for a few moments. "Hey, is Donna still here?"

"Nah, it's almost eleven. I sent her home."

"Yeah." He inclined his head toward the Communications office. "Is Sam around?"

"I dunno." Josh ran his fingers along the rumpled edges of his tie. "Leo, come on, what's the matter?"

Even in the low light he could see Leo's expression tighten. His lips compressed the way he did when he was angry, but his posture was slouched, almost defeated. Leo shut the door before he came over and sat in the chair next to Josh's desk, hands folded.

"We got a problem, Josh. I just got word from the Justice Department."

"Seriously, I'm the last person you want to talk to about a legal matter. I mean, the degree's there, but the experience..."

"Carl Leroy, " Leo interrupted, "you know, the kid on the ground at Rosslyn?"

That was a name Josh had hoped never to hear again. It took him a moment to respond. "I know who Carl Leroy is," he said around a lump forming in his throat.

"Carl Leroy's testimony was a bust."

"What do you mean?"

Leo studied the backs of his hands. "The deal they offered him--"

"Yeah, ten years instead of life or the chair for information."

"That deal." Leo looked up at Josh, and the sadness in his eyes was painful. "It was useless. He didn't have any proof of anything, not the KKK, not the Brotherhood of Aryan Nations. He was just a sick kid hanging around with other sick kids..."

"But he said he could give them names, proof, stuff going all the way from Virginia White Pride to the parent organizations!"

"He gave some, but it wasn't anything they didn't already have on file. Rumors and innuendo, trails that dead-ended. Little things, not worth much when you shake it all out."

"So the deal's off. He gets life."

"Josh." Leo shook his head and Josh felt a fist squeezing the breath out of his lungs. "Josh, there's not a money-back guarantee on these things. You know that."

Josh choked back a cough. The earth's gravitational pull shifted somehow, leaving the room at a dizzying angle, and he slumped over, leaning his forehead against the heels of his hands. From this position he turned his head just enough to see Leo. "What happens now?" he asked, his voice tinny and distant.

"He sits quiet for a few years, he gets parole."

"And then?"

Leo put his hand on Josh's arm, warm and comforting. "I got a call in to Justice. I'm gonna find out if there's any recourse. But it doesn't look good."

"Oh, God." Josh felt something rising in his throat, something acidic and dangerous.

"He's still serving time for attempted murder of a federal employee. We got that, at least."

Josh clutched his stomach, turning his head just in time to hit the wastebasket when he began to vomit.

"Ah, God, Josh," Leo murmured, leaning over to pat Josh's back as his body tried to empty itself. Leo looked around the room for the remnants of Josh's dinner and grabbed the soda. "C'mon, drink this, it'll settle your stomach."

The tab gave way with a hiss and a pop that made Josh jump up in his seat. "Leo, it's nothing, it's just the chicken salad," Josh protested, but he almost dropped the can as he leaned over again, spitting up bile until his whole body began to shake.

Leo grabbed the phone and punched in some numbers. "Sam, I need you in Josh's office right now!"

Josh closed his eyes and ran the cold can against his flushed cheek before attempting to take a sip. The fizzing liquid ran down his throat, tracing the path down to his aching, empty stomach. He reopened his eyes in time to see Sam skidding around the corner, tie flying, glasses askew.

"What the hell, Leo?" Sam asked, panting, as he held on to the doorframe.

"It's Carl Leroy. He's got a short stay at Club Fed on the Justice Department's nickel," Leo said, his gaze never leaving Josh. "The information wasn't anything to write home about."

Sam adjusted his glasses. "That can't be."

"It is, Sam."

"Oh, my God, Leo, he's gonna serve maybe five years tops." The timbre was somewhere between dismay and disgust, then it softened as he turned his attention to Josh. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah." He took another swallow of soda, fighting the urge to let it come back up but to no avail. Once more he leaned over, retching, until finally he was able to take a sip and keep it down. "I'm okay, Sam."

"Well, I'm thinking you're not - I mean, you're throwing up in your wastebasket, and that's a pretty good clue that things aren't going too well." Sam went to the desk and sat on the corner. Looking down at Josh, he murmured, "I think you ought to get out of here, go home for the night."

Leo nodded his approval. "Sam's right, Josh. Go home, relax, sleep a little while. When you get in tomorrow we can talk to the guys at Justice, find out more."

"I'm...I don't..." His neck ached and he put his forehead against his fingers. "I don't think I'm gonna get any sleep."

"I know. But you have to try." Sam patted Josh's arm before standing up. "Come home with me - we'll have a drink, unwind a bit, and I'll drive you by your place in the morning so you can change."

"I don't want to be any trouble," Josh said, hating the neediness in his voice.

"Ah, you're nothing but trouble, but come along anyway." Sam inclined his head toward the door. Josh felt Sam's concern and Leo's fear as he rose. He wrinkled his nose at the smell emanating from his wastebasket, but Leo cut him off.

"I'll call someone to take care of that. You go."

Josh shrugged into his jacket. It felt heavy, confining. He kept his gaze lowered as he followed Sam to his latest car.

They drove to the accompaniment of late-night wind through the moon roof. "Stupid name for a car, Sam. It sounds like the kids' song," Josh grumbled. Sam turned his head enough to give him a quizzical look. Josh sang off-key, moving his hands in a vertical climbing motion. "Mitsubishi Spider, went up the water spout."

"Well, thank you for that. I'll be sure that my next car is a Volvo, give you something to really get wound up about."

"Sorry," Josh said, tucking his chin to his chest and looking out the window.

"That's the thing about you, Josh. You're really not sorry at all. You give and give with the bad jokes but you still look around to make sure we knew who said them." He grinned at Josh. "But it's endearing in a wanting-to-kick-your-ass sort of way."

"Thanks." He took in a sharp breath as a fire truck rushed past them, lights flashing and siren shrieking in the night.

"Josh..."

"Sam, it's fine. It's fine."

Only it wasn't fine. He felt the hot impact of steel inside his body and the rising sense of panic as breath was squeezed from his lungs. He twisted in his seat so that Sam couldn't see his face, and he struggled to keep his breathing regulated. He hadn't had an attack like that in a while and it was hard to remember what to do when the panic rose and the helplessness clutched at him. Touch something, memorize the sensation, breathe, breathe, breathe.

"We're almost there." Sam's voice was a low, comforting rumble. Moments later they pulled up in front of his building and got out of the car. Josh remained behind for a moment, willing his legs to be steady beneath him. 

When they went into the building, Josh kept his eyes focused on the beige walls of the corridor, the scuffed - Sam called them "distressed" - hardwood floors, anything to keep his eyes off of Sam and the worry that was almost a halo around him.

The apartment was much the same as the last time Josh had seen it - spartan, efficient, clean. Sam's obsession with tidiness was definitely one of his weirder aspects, but at least it provided a change from Josh's disorderly home.

"Sit," Sam ordered, pointing at his couch. Josh took a seat on the sleek leather cushion while Sam busied himself at the refrigerator. "I don't know, is beer a good thing for an upset stomach, or a bad thing?"

"It's good. I'm fine, Sam."

"You want something to eat? I'm pretty sure I picked up some stuff within, like, the last two months."

"I'm fine." He had to work to keep the edge of hysteria out of his voice, and from the look on Sam's face as he returned and handed Josh a beer, the attempt wasn't too effective.

Sam lounged in the chair opposite Josh, ankle over knee, picking at the edge of the label on the bottle. "When did you find out?"

"Few minutes before you got there. From Leo." Josh sighed. "I hate this."

"I can see why. You didn't pursue getting this guy put away for life because you thought - hell, we all thought - we'd be able to dig deeper into the organization, keep other people from getting hurt."

"That's all very noble and what have you, Sam, but I'm not talking about that."

Sam took the bottle down from his lips without taking another drink. He leaned forward. "Okay."

"I hate...this." Josh gestured around the apartment with his beer bottle, spilling a few drops on his pants leg.

"Mission-style furniture?"

"Sam." He appreciated Sam's attempt at levity and gave him a quick flash of a grin to let him know. Sam grinned back. "No. I meant things like tonight. Leo tiptoeing around the bad news. You babysitting me. People on constant alert for signs that Josh is losing it."

"We're not that bad, are we?"

"You mean well, but honest to God, sometimes I wish you'd all move to Outer Mongolia."

"We'd find ways to torment you from there, you know."

Josh took several swallows of his beer. "Yeah, but from there I wouldn't be able to see your eyes." He was amused, in the small part of his heart that found the discomfort of others to be amusing, that Sam immediately tilted his head away. Then he hated himself for the cruelty. "All of you look at me as if I'm some sort of rare, exotic animal. Or a cartoon of myself."

"So, if you were drawn by Warner Brothers, what would you be?"

"I dunno. Some Latin Wile E. Coyote name like Joshuas Suicidinas." The flash of unadulterated panic on Sam's face made Josh flinch. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"God, Josh." Sam's voice was small, frightened. He jumped up and went to the window, leaning against the pane. His breaths, fast and shallow, created little clouds on the cool glass. "I don't know what to do. I can't...when you say things like that..."

"Sam, I'm sorry. It was a dumb joke. I'm sorry." Josh rose and walked over to Sam, turning him around and clasping him in a brief, tight hug. "I'm being an asshole," he said over Sam's shoulder. "So you know I'm okay, okay?"

Sam took a step backward, holding Josh by the upper arms and looking at him with misery in his eyes. "I screwed up at Christmas. Donna and Toby tried to warn me, but I didn't want to see it."

"I didn't want to see it, either. You can't blame yourself." He cocked his head and grinned. "Actually, knowing you, you'll still find a way to blame yourself."

"I was a lousy friend."

"No. No." Josh steadied his hands around the beer bottle, glancing up at Sam. "I still don't remember everything that happened after we left the Newseum. Bits and pieces, really. But I remember the pain, Sam, and I remember being afraid, and I remember that just when it would've felt so good, so...peaceful, to let myself slip away, I heard your voice. Your words, telling me to not to go."

Sam opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"That's not what lousy friends do," Josh continued. "So stop beating yourself up."

Sam nodded, his jaw muscles twitching. "You're right. I'm just making it worse with all the self-recrimination..."

"Sam. Shut up." Josh perched on the back of the sofa, gesturing again with his bottle because his hands weren't steady and he didn't want Sam to see that. "I'm done with this, the way my life's been working out since the shooting. It's nothing but fears, tears, and beers, my friend, and I'm done with it. I'm getting my life back, and I'm starting tonight." He shrugged and lifted one eyebrow. "Well, maybe I'm not giving up the beers."

Leaning forward, Sam clinked his beer bottle against Josh's and they both drank. .For a long time they looked out the window at the sleepy night-time traffic, not speaking. It was something about Sam that Josh had always appreciated, the way that Sam could tell when a lull needed to be filled with meaningless chatter and when it was better to let a room be wrapped up in silence.

A siren split the peaceful night. Josh followed the flashing lights for a moment, then stared straight ahead. He felt Sam's appraising gaze on him, so he sat very still, not letting the fear take hold of him, and when at last the street was quiet, he turned to Sam and grinned. "Hey, look. You cured me. You can stop kicking yourself now."

"Okay, that's as much abuse as I can take in one session," Sam said around a yawn. "I'm gonna turn in. You know where the stuff is, right?"

"Yeah, I'm good." Josh went to the hall closet and pulled out a pillow and some blankets as Sam walked toward his bedroom. "Hey, Sam."

Sam turned, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a little smile. "Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." Sam's voice imbued the simple words with a thousand emotions. He started to say something else, then closed his mouth, smiled again, and went into his bedroom.

Josh toed off his shoes and yanked his tie aside. The day had been brutal, the night even more so, and he was so tired that he simply collapsed on the sofa with the pillow and blanket clutched to his chest. Within a minute he was drifting, dozing calmly, and for once there were no dreams to plague him.

Early in the morning, too early, he opened his eyes to find Sam sitting in a nearby chair, watching him. "'Sup?" Josh asked, drowsy and confused.

Sam just looked embarrassed. "It's almost five-thirty - you were sound asleep and I didn't want to wake you."

"You look like crap, Sam," Josh said, meaning it. "Did you sleep in that chair?"

"You saw me go into my bedroom..."

"You slept in the damn chair!"

"Yeah." Sam shrugged and a lock of black hair fell over his eyes. "Actually, I couldn't sleep, so technically I wasn't sleeping in the chair, I was just sitting. In it."

"Watching me."

"Well, you're in between the chair and the window, and it's too dark to read at this hour."

"Sam," Josh groaned. He raked his hand through the tangled mess of his hair. "Do us both a favor - go back to bed, grab a fifteen minute nap or something. I'll take a cab over to my place." He met Sam's questioning gaze. "I'm okay. I'm not gonng do anything more stupid than usual, and if I were, then you'd be my first phone call. So relax, and thanks for letting me crash here."

"Sure." Sam watched Josh slip into his shoes and head for the door. "We don't have a meeting this morning, so I'll see you when I see you."

"Yeah." Josh stopped with his hand on the doorknob, and turned around. Sam was still in the chair, watching him with undisguised concern. "Sam. It's okay."

"I know that. Go." Sam waved him away, smiling, but as Josh went out in search of a taxi he knew that Sam would be sitting there, wakeful and brooding, until his nation needed him.

***

The Oval Office  
7:24 a.m.

"I swear to God, Leo, I want their guts for garters. I want heads rolling like pinballs!"

Leo nodded as he watched the President pace the room. "I understand your frustration, sir..."

"Oh, I've long since moved on from frustration and now I'm ready to reinstate the guillotine. I mean it, Leo. I want the name, rank, and serial number of every one of those yahoos at Justice and I want them on unemployment by the end of the day."

"I've got Bobby Davis looking into it, to see how this went bad."

The President made a dismissive gesture, scowling. "It went bad because we gave carte blanche to crazy people. 'Just tell us a couple lies, you go free.' We have to find a way to fix it."

"They can't go back on the agreement, Mr. President. We need that negotiating ability with Justice or a lot more people like Carl Leroy will go unpunished."

Bartlet stopped in front of his desk and put his palms flat on the surface, leaning over with his eyes closed. The impotent rage pounded against his head, clogging his throat. "So. What can we do?"

They were interrupted by a knock on the door and Mrs. Landingham's entrance. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but Leo sent for Toby Ziegler and he's waiting."

Bartlet looked up. "Leo? You asked for Toby?"

"I asked for Toby because he's part of my plan. Could you send him in, please, Mrs. Landingham?"

She nodded and held the door open for Toby. He came in and stood at the edge of the Presidential seal, his hands folded in front of him, his eyes dark and gloomy. "Good morning, Mr. President. Leo."

"Leo says you're part of how we can take care of what Justice couldn't," the President said without preface. "And I'd love to hear how you think we're gonna do that."

"Well, sir, I won't deny that this is a bit of a public relations...nightmare."

"You think? We can't put away a guy who almost killed one of our own, and you think the public might react badly? You think they might think we're just the slightest bit incompetent because we can't get these people?"

Toby glanced at Leo, who spoke quickly. "We can't get these people, Mr. President, but we can get their guns. Toby's been part of a team working on a new gun control bill, and he thinks we can turn up the heat on the gun lobby, make them accountable for what's being done with those weapons they're so proud of."

Bartlet shook his head. "We've tried gun legislation before. And we've gotten shot down, if you'll excuse the pun, Toby, so what makes you think it can work this time?"

"Because last time, sir, we weren't someone's intended victims. Because last time, it was academic." He waited, watching, his expression never changing even though Bartlet could tell he was reading their faces.

"I thought we decided, before," Bartlet said softly, "that because of what happened, we were exactly the wrong people to do this."

"We did, but I've changed my position, sir. We were heading that direction before, with the 802, and we shouldn't change our focus just because..." Toby trailed off for a moment, then took a deep breath and began again. "I think we're actually the right people, sir. I've arranged a meeting with some key gun lobbyists, including Tom Phillips from the NRA. We're going to discuss stricter controls for the new bill - longer waiting periods, more thorough background checks, losing the gun show exemption. And banning more kinds of assault weapons."

"Haven't you been around and around with these people before?" Bartlet asked, his voice edged with skepticism.

"Yes we have, sir."

"And didn't you make some pretty strong statements following my State of the Union address?"

"Yes, sir, I did. And for the record, may I please state that what I said was accurate enough that three congressmen called me the next day for clarification because they were interested in changing their stands. We've got Congress ready, sir, we've got enough support to get something through, but we have to get the gun lobby off our backs and we have to do it now."

"And this time," Leo said, "we're gonna let Josh loose on them."

Toby shook his head, grimacing in protest. "Wait, wait, wait. You never said Josh."

"I don't see any other way. You and Sam, you're good, and you'll do a good job, but it's not real unless we bring in Josh."

"We can't. You said we weren't going to make hay out of our tragedy." Toby put his palm on his cheek, rubbing his eyebrow with his fingertips. "This isn't right."

Bartlet nodded, turning his attention to Leo. "Toby has a point. It sounds like we're using Josh for sympathy points."

"We're seeing that justice is served." Leo was equally emphatic.

"And that's all well and good, but this is a man's life we're talking about here!" Toby's voice was dark with barely controlled fury. "I'm sorry, Mr.  
President."

"I understand, believe me."

"No, sir, I don't think you do. I don't think either of you does." He paused. "I talked to Sam this morning. He told me that last night, Josh said something about suicide."

"Oh, dear God," Bartlet gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. He still carried the memory of Josh shouting at him to listen to him, to please listen to him, and it had become painfully obvious that no one had been listening to Josh for a long, long time. They had come so close, that Christmas, to losing him: not to a bullet, but to his own hopelessness. It had the weight of mortal sin.

Leo's mouth dropped open. "Toby..."

"He said Josh passed it off as a joke, but Sam is scared. Sam. Is. Scared." Toby punctuated every word with his hands. "And he knows Josh better than any of us, so if he's scared then I take it very seriously indeed."

"I take it seriously, too. You have to believe me on this. But I have to ask - does anyone know what Josh would want to do?" Bartlet felt as weary as he sounded.

Toby rubbed his forehead. "Mr. President, with all due respect, I cannot imagine any circumstance in which putting Josh Lyman in that room could end in anything but disaster, both political and personal."

"I disagree," Leo said. He was making a point, his voice firm. "I've known Josh since he was a boy. He's first and foremost a fighter, and he's gonna want a piece of this."

"The piece I'm afraid it'll take is this one," Toby grumbled, pointing to his heart. "And I'm not sure how much Josh has left to give."

"Or what he could get back if he can make this thing work!" Leo responded.

"Here's what I think," Bartlet said, forcing the combatants' attention back on him. "I think the best thing to do - hell, the only thing to do - is to ask him." Bartlet walked toward the door, opened it, and called out to his assistant. "Mrs. Landingham, get Donna to send Josh in here right away, please."

"Yes, sir."

They waited, the silence heavy and oppressive around them. Bartlet could feel Toby's anxiety, the compassion he tried so hard to conceal behind a prickly facade. And he could only imagine what Leo was going through on behalf of the young man who was so, so much the way Leo had been twenty years before.

Mrs. Landingham ushered Josh into the room, then closed the door. Josh walked over to the President, the bounce gone from his step, and greeted them. "Good morning, Mr. President. Toby. Leo."

"Did you get any sleep at all last night?" Leo asked, his brow wrinkling as he looked Josh up and down.

"Yeah, actually, I did. Sam gave me a beer, we talked a few minutes, and then I was out like a light."

"Your stomach's okay?"

Bartlet watched Josh toy with his wristwatch, color rising in his face and his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Yeah, Leo, I told you it was the chicken salad."

Leo nodded, looking away, and Bartlet was glad that Josh wouldn't see the anguish in his face. "Josh, listen. Are you still seeing that guy Keyworth recommended?"

Josh balked, stepping away from them and holding his hands up in the air. "Okay. Okay, what the hell's going on here?" he protested. "Did Sam..."

"Josh. I'm sorry. We're just concerned, that's all, and one or two of us may have overstepped our boundaries." Bartlet kept his voice low and calm. "Let's just get back to the matter at hand, all right?"

Josh looked at Bartlet, wary, forehead furrowed. "Mr. President, Donna said this  
was urgent...?"

"Yes, it is, and I'd like to get right to the point. There's a new gun control bill in the works, but we need to secure the cooperation of the gun lobby before we can move forward. There's going to be a meeting today of several key lobbyists. We want to talk them into more controls, stricter enforcement."

"They're gonna fight you on that," Josh said, looking at a spot over the President's shoulder.

"Absolutely. I'm sending Toby and Sam. And I'd like to have your help."

Josh frowned and cast a glance at Toby. "Mine? You want me in there?"

"Leo thinks it's the best way to make the situation real to them," Bartlet said. "Toby, however, thinks we're using you as political collateral. And make no mistake about this, Josh - Toby is right."

"Mr. President!" Leo cried, aghast, but Bartlet waved him to silence.

The President looked at Josh, acutely aware of the dark circles above cheekbones that seemed to push against his flesh, how the lackluster eyes all but begged him for a spark. Josh was still rebuilding, still struggling, undaunted but without direction, and now they were offering him something that could reignite his extraordinary heart. Or send him down in flames.

"So if you want to think about it, you got three minutes."

Josh's eyes were wide as he looked around the room. "I don't need three minutes." He took in a deep breath and clasped his hands together. "I'm in."

"Josh..."

"Toby, I know what I'm doing. If I sit back and let you fight this for me, then they've won. They'll think they've weakened me, and that's something I will not permit. I told Sam last night that I was going to take my life back. And I meant it." He looked at the President and flashed him a smile. "So. Let the games begin."

***

Outside the Roosevelt Room  
2:53 p.m.

"Josh, stop fidgeting."

"Unhand me, Donna." He pushed her fingers away from the knot in his tie and adjusted it himself. "The President said they wanted me in that meeting but they've been meeting without me for an hour, so what the hell am I standing around here for?"

"Sam said he'd come get you when he needed you. Just relax."

"You keep saying that, but then you keep picking at me like I'm a chimp in a Jane Goodall special."

"Fine, then. Go on in there with your fly open, see if I care." Donna smirked as Josh's hands flew over his zipper. "Made you look."

"You're fired."

"Impervious," she declared.

"That's only good during a blackout." He started to pace the hallway.

"Don't care. Besides, your shoe's untied."

"Donna, do I look stupid?"

"No, but you will if you trip over your shoelace...like that," she said as Josh  
tripped over the errant shoelace.

He groaned and sat down in one of the little chairs to tie his shoe, but a sudden tremor in his fingers made him stop and bury his face in his hands. "Damn it," he breathed.

As he exhaled, defeated, he saw Donna take a seat beside him. "Lift up," she said softly. "I'll do it."

"Nah, I got it." He steadied his hands by sheer force of will and manipulated the shoelace into an untidy bow. He could feel Donna stiffening beside him, rebuffed even by this little gesture. "I'd let you, you know, but then you'd start cutting my meat for me, and making me wear galoshes..." Josh cleared his throat and looked straight at her, at the downward slope of her mouth and into the deep concern in her eyes. "I want these guys, Donna," he said. "I want them."

"You're gonna do fine," she assured him. "You were made for this."

"Yeah." He nudged her shoulder with his arm and grinned at her until she had to smile back, then they both sat and stared into space.

The door opened and Sam beckoned to him. "Josh?"

"Yeah." He gave Donna a reassuring smile. "I'm gonna go kick some ass, okay?"

"Okay." She stood up and straightened his lapels, and Josh looked back over his shoulder to see her standing there, trying to smile.

The Roosevelt Room was full, every seat taken and aides spread along the wall, writing in note pads. "Thanks for letting me sit in," Josh said as he took the seat Sam had vacated. Sam went over to the wall and stood near Bonnie, who was holding a notebook and giving Josh a surreptitious thumbs-up.

"This is very touching," said a burly man with graying hair. "Mr. Ziegler, you outdid yourself this time, you really did."

"I can't imagine what you mean, Mr. Phillips." Toby's voice was full of sweet venom. "Josh is a valued advisor to the President on domestic policy, particularly matters of firearms. He helped author 802 last year..."

"Please. We're not stupid." Phillips turned to Josh. "We mean you no disrespect, Mr. Lyman, but perhaps you are a little too close to the situation to be entirely objective."

"I disagree, Mr. Phillips. I'm thinking perhaps that a few of you aren't close enough to entirely give a damn."

Toby glanced at Josh, his eyebrows raised. "We were just discussing with Mr. Phillips and Mr. Tanner the merits of ascertaining the mental state of customers who think it's necessary and advisable to own an assault weapon."

"Well, gentlemen, I would think that the simple desire to own something that could mow down a couple dozen people without reloading might indicate something peculiar in a man's state of mind, don't you?" Josh leaned forward, folding his arms on the table.

"It's not up to the government to determine why someone wants something that is within their constitutional rights to own, Mr. Lyman." Tanner, a paunchy, middle-aged man with thinning sandy hair and watery blue eyes , tapped his notebook. "How would you like it if you had to fill out a form to own a CD player?"

"It's not as if I could use a CD player to kill or maim anyone - apart from playing Celine Dion songs, which should be at least a misdemeanor - so I wouldn't mind in the least. Because if even one person could be protected from 'My Heart Will Go On,' then..."

"I'm glad to see that you've maintained your famous sense of humor," Phillips said, his tone like acid. "It might be more appropriate for you to focus on what happened to you, and let it give you the opportunity to reevaluate your life."

"Believe me when I tell you I've done that." Josh looked Phillips in the eye. "That's why I'm in this room today."

"I'm just saying that after such an ordeal, some men might turn to the Lord."

"I've done that, too." Josh stared hard at Phillips, daring him to make another remark, to clarify his position and give Josh the opening he longed for with every fiber of his being, the one that would have Toby reaching down to pull the man's lungs out through his ears. "But right now, I'm turning to men like yourself, men who have the power to make sure that even people like me don't have to be that close to meeting their maker. And it is the same maker, Mr. Phillips, even if you use an operator and I dial direct."

"Anyway," Sam broke in, looking from Toby to Josh and back again, "we should get back to the subject at hand, which is finding common ground on which weapons aren't really likely to be used by civilians who are trying to defend themselves."

Everyone flipped through the pages in front of them, making notes or occasionally whispering to one another. Josh felt an uncomfortable heat rising in his body. He took off his jacket and set it carefully on the back of his chair. After a few minutes, Toby spoke. "Anyone want to discuss these items?"

"I think you know we do," Tanner said. "I'm looking at a lot of guns that just aren't likely to be used as assault weapons." He circled some names and slid his notebook over to Toby. "These need to be taken off the table, Mr. Ziegler."

"Ah." Toby looked up and down the paper, rubbing his beard with his one hand and tapping his pen on the pad with the other. "I see that you have circled the 357 Desert Eagle."

"Among others."

Josh flinched in his chair. "You can't be serious."

"Josh, hang on a second."

"No, Toby, that's the gun..."

Toby's expression was carefully neutral, but Josh could feel the silent plea for him to keep still. "What Josh is objecting to is that this is the very weapon - one which you, sir, claim isn't used for assault - that the a member of Virginia White Pride used to put a bullet into him."

"That's very regrettable," Phillips said. "And somewhat ironic, given that the gun is actually manufactured in Israel."

Josh felt blood surging past his ears. Sam moved behind him, not touching him but close enough for Josh to feel the glow of his shared anger.

"We understand that this is an emotional issue for this White House," Tanner said, "but you have to realize that these guns actually account for very few crimes, and those crimes in which they've been a factor have shown that they inflict relatively little damage."

Josh didn't remember getting to his feet, but he found himself standing, hands on the table, sweat starting to pool on his forehead. "You have got to be kidding me! Toby, he's kidding me!"

"Josh..."

"No! I am not going to stand here and listen to them tell me that a 357 Desert Eagle, regardless of its provenance, inflicts relatively little damage!" He took hold of his shirt and yanked hard, tearing it up and off, taking his undershirt with it in an eerie hail of buttons and the sharp rending of cloth. "You want to see what 'relatively little damage' looks like? Just look at me!"

Sam put his hands on Josh's arms, but Josh shrugged him off with the strength of a madman. He knew he was shouting, almost screaming, but he was beyond caring   
"You want to see this on your son? Your daughter? Your wife?"

"Mr. Ziegler," one of the men at the table said, his voice full of reproach, "I suggest you rein this man in."

"Shut up," Toby growled.

Josh leaned over the table, daring each man to look at the raised line that ran from sternum to waist and at the jagged hole to its left. "You want to have someone's hand in their chests? You want to have machines breathing for them for fourteen hours in the middle of the night? You want to have a doctor shut off their hearts while you sit in a waiting room, going crazy because you think it should've been you?"

The red haze over his vision began to dissipate and his breathing slowed. He could see the color draining from Sam's face and the way Toby's whole body was coiled in agonized rage. Josh went to stand between them, placing a hand on each man's shoulder.

"We can talk about 'relatively little damage' when the people you love..." His voice broke and he had to wait a moment before he could finish. "...when the people you love have seen in your eyes what I've seen in the eyes of these two men. God forbid." He bit his lips, steadying himself, breathing shallowly through his nose, then said again, "God forbid."

Silence.

Josh was surprised to feel Toby's hand patting the small of his back. As if on cue, Sam took his arm and led him to the door, pausing to grab Josh's discarded jacket. Josh and Sam strode out into the brightly-lit hallway, and as the door started to close they heard Toby's voice.

"Gentlemen. Let's deal."

***

Leo McGarry's office  
6:45 p.m.

He'd washed his face and let Donna bring him an undamaged shirt, but Josh still felt disheveled and dirty. Sam had said only that Leo was "ready to see him," whatever that meant, and that he and Donna would be waiting outside when he was done.

When Leo was done, more likely. Done kicking his ass.

He loped around the room, not really looking at the paraphernalia Leo had collected in his long career. When the door from Margaret's office finally opened, Josh whirled around so suddenly that Leo started, his hand over his heart.

"Jesus, Josh. Just sit, wouldya?" Leo took off his jacket and hung it up while Josh perched on the armrest of a chair.

"Leo, I can't even begin to say...I mean, there's just no excuse..."

"Shut the hell up." Leo removed his glasses and sat on the edge of the desk, shaking his head. "Honest to God, I oughta paddle you guys, I really oughta."

"Toby and Sam weren't..."

"Nah, not Toby and Sam. First C.J. goes on television without pants, and Ainsley does a dance in her office wearing a bathrobe, and now you - stripping in the Roosevelt Room."

Josh grimaced, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he looked at Leo, he was surprised to see a smile on his face.

"Don't make this a habit, Josh."

"No. I...I won't."

Leo nodded at him, his expression gentle and sympathetic. "I was just talking to Toby. He brokered a pretty good deal with the gun lobby. I think that within a week we may just have the Lyman bill on its way to committee."

Josh's mouth felt dry and he swayed a little on his feet. "The...the Lyman bill? Leo?"

"If that's okay with you."

"Yeah." Josh gaped for a moment, then tried to offer Leo a smile. "I didn't expect...this."

"And there's something else I'd like you to know." Leo stepped closer and put an envelope in Josh's hand. "These are letters from three Justice Department officials, apologizing for the mistake they made with Carl Leroy. They're for you."

"That's...that's a nice gesture."

"Also, they have tendered their resignations over their role in the plea fiasco."

Josh felt a sudden chill. "No, Leo." He rose and looked into Leo's eyes. "It's not right. They were just doing their jobs. I don't think this should hurt them."

"The President didn't make them resign, if that's what you're thinking. And you can rest assured he wanted to go fire them in person, but I talked him down from there. They made the decision themselves."

Josh sighed. "I know. But I don't want them to resign because of the man who did this to me. See, I meant what I told Sam about taking back my life, and that goes for the lives of everyone who was touched by what Virginia White Pride did. The fallout stops here and now, Leo." He took a shaky breath. "There's been enough collateral damage done."

They stared at the envelope for a moment. Josh felt the approval of a man whose opinion meant the world to him.

"You're a good man, Josh," Leo said. "Your father would be proud."

Josh looked down at his shoes for a moment, a flush creeping across his face. "Thank you. For everything."

"Yeah. Now go the hell away, wouldya?"

Grinning, Josh reached for the doorknob and walked out into Margaret's office. Toby was walking toward Sam, who stood with his arm draped around Donna's shoulders, and all three of them looked up at Josh as he came toward them with the familiar swagger in place once more.

Donna's eyes were shimmering. And Sam's. Toby kept his head lowered, but the glances he stole at Josh told him that there was so much more in his heart than on his visage.

"The Lyman Bill," Sam murmured, nodding his head as a smile played around the corners of his mouth. Toby chuckled in the background, and even Donna joined in when they all shouted it as one: "The Lyman Bill!"

Josh rocked back and forth on his heels, blinking back sudden tears, then opened his arms wide to enfold both Sam and Donna. He patted Sam on the back while resting his cheek in Donna's hair for the briefest of instants, and looked over at Toby.

Toby, who had kept his head from smashing into the pavement, who had staunched his blood with his bare hands, whose soul had been almost as fractured as Josh's over the last months. Toby, allowing him to see a shy smile, lifting his hand to high-five Josh in lieu of the embrace he'd never allow himself to enter.

Their hands remained clasped in the air for a long time, long enough for Leo and the President to peek at the group from Leo's doorway. They watched as Sam herded them out into the hall, muttering something about fearless beer that made Josh throw back his head and laugh. Bartlet had been afraid that he'd never hear that sound again, the sound of Josh's bright, brash laughter, and he patted Leo's back. "Well done, my friend, well done. Just look at them."

"They're gonna turn into you and me one day, sir, you know that," Leo said.

"Yeah. No, wait. Josh is you. Which one's me?"

Leo chuckled as they began walking toward the Oval Office. "Sam is you."

"Thank you - for a second, there, I thought you meant Toby was me, and I was gonna have to throw you out of the building."

"Well, I'm glad we cleared that up, sir."

"So Josh is to Sam what you are to me, huh?" Bartlet took off his glasses and regarded Leo, his eyes twinkling. "Then God help the boy, Leo, because he's gonna have his hands full one day."

Leo's mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile. "Thank you, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Nah. Just make sure CJ knows where they're going - if she has to cover for Josh doing a Gypsy Rose Lee impersonation in the Roosevelt Room, then he should buy her a drink first."

"Yes, sir. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Leo."

Bartlet sat down, imagining the dark Georgetown bar where Toby and Donna would be talking CJ out of strangling Josh with her bare hands. At that same table Sam and Josh would have their heads together, repairing the damage by celebrating their chance to make the world a better place. He remembered what that felt like.

And it was good.

***  
End  
***


End file.
